Our No. 1 hole is somewhere around 450 yards, and the average player is
very well satisfied if he fetches the putting green on his third shot.
It is uphill all the way, with a bunker to catch a topped drive, rough
to the right and left to punish pulls and slices, and sand pits guarding
the green. Windy drove first, talking all the time he was on the tee.
"Hope the gallery doesn't make you nervous, Kitts. _I_ always drive best
when people are watchin' me, but then I've got plenty of nerve, they
say. You may not like my stance, but watch this one sail! And when I
address the ball I address it in a few brief, burnin' words, like this:
'Take a ride, you little white devil, take a ride!'" Whis-sh! Click! And
the little white devil certainly took a ride--long, low, and straight up
the middle of the course--the ideal ball, with just enough hook on it to
make it run well after it struck the ground. "Two hundred and sixty
yards if it's an inch!" said Windy, grinning at Kitts. "Lay your pill
beside that one--if you think you can!"
"You're a 12-handicap man--and you drive like that!" said Kitts, which
was, of course, a neat slap at Cupid, who was within earshot.
"Cutts is a friend of mine," bragged Windy. "That's why I'm a 12 man. I
really play to a 6."
Kitts saw that he wasn't going to get any goats with conversational
leads, so he shut up and teed his ball. He was one of those deliberate
players who must make just so many motions before they pull off their
shots. First he took his stance and his practice swings; then he moved
up on the ball and addressed it; then he waggled his club back and forth
over it, looking up the course after every waggle, as if picking out a
nice spot; then, when he had annoyed everybody, and Windy most of all,
he sent a perfectly atrocious slice into the rough beyond the bunker.
"Humph!" grunted Wilkins. "A lot of preparation for such a rotten shot!
Looks like I'm 3 up and 17 to go. Probably won't be much of a
contest----"
"Do you expect to win it with your mouth?" snapped Kitts, and Windy
winked at the rest of us.
"His goat is loose already!" said he in a stage whisper. "He can't stand
the gaff!"
Adolphus got out of the tall grass on his third shot, but dropped his
fourth into a deep sand pit short of the green.
"With a lot of luck," said Windy, reaching for his brassy, "you may get
an 8--but I doubt it. Pretty soft for me, pretty soft!" And with the
sole of his club he patted the turf behind his ball, smoothing it
down--three gentle little pats. "Pret-ty soft!" murmured Windy, and sent
the ball whistling straight on to the green for a sure 4. Then he turned
to Kitts. "D'you give up?" said he. "Might just as well; you haven't got
a burglar's chance!"
"I claim the hole," said Adolphus calmly, fishing out the book of rules.
"You--what?"
"Rule No. 10," said Kitts, beginning to read. "'In playing through the
green, irregularities of surface which could in any way affect the
player's stroke shall not be removed nor pressed down by the player----'
You patted the grass behind your ball and improved the lie by smoothing
it down. I claim the hole."
Windy went about the colour of a nice ripe Satsuma plum. His neck
swelled so much that his ears moved outward. "You don't mean to say that
you're goin' to call a thing like that on me when you're already licked
for the hole?" He spoke slowly, as if he found it hard to believe that
the situation was real.
"I claim it," repeated Adolphus monotonously. "You can appeal to Mr.
Cutts, as chairman of the greens committee."
"Hey, Fatty! All I did was pat the grass a few times with my club, and
this--this _gentleman_ here says he claims the hole."
"You violated the rule," shortly answered Cupid, who may be fat but does
not like to be reminded of it so publicly.
"And you're goin' to let him get away with that?" demanded Windy. "I'm
on the green in two, and he's neck-deep in the sand on his fourth----"
"Makes no difference," said Cupid, turning away. "You ought to know the
rules by now. Kitts wins the hole."
Well, Windy finally accepted the situation, but he was in a savage frame
of mind--so savage that he walked all the way to the second tee without
opening his mouth. There he stepped aside, with a low bow to Kitts.
"Your _honour_, I believe," said he with nasty emphasis.
No. 2 is a short hole--a drive and a pitch. Windy got a good ball, and
it rolled almost to the edge of the green. Kitts's drive was short but
straight, and he pitched his second to the green, some thirty feet from
the pin, and the advantage seemed to be with Windy until it was
discovered that his ball was lying in a cuppy depression of the turf.
"That's lovely, ain't it?" growled Windy. "A fine drive--and look at
this for a lie! I was goin' to use a putter, but a putter won't get the
ball out of there. Hey, Fatty, had I better use a niblick here?"
"I claim the hole," said Kitts, reaching for the book.
"But I haven't done anything!" howled Windy. "How can you claim the hole
when I haven't played the shot?"
"You asked advice," said Kitts, reading. "'A player may not ask for nor
willingly receive advice from any one except his own caddie, his
partner, or his partner's caddie.' This is not a foursome, so you have
no partner. Advice is defined as any suggestion which could influence a
player in determining the line of play, in the choice of a club, or in
the method of making a stroke. You asked whether you should use a
niblick--and you lose the hole."
Windy, knocked speechless for once in his life, looked over at Cupid,
and Cupid nodded his head.
"The match is now all square," said Kitts as he started for the third
tee.
"And squared by a couple of petty larceny protests!" said Windy. "Hey,
Mister Bookworm, wait a minute! I want to tell you something for your
own good!"
"Oh, play golf!" said Kitts, over his shoulder.
Windy strode after him and took him by the arm. It wasn't a gentle grasp
either.
"That's exactly what I want to say. _You_ play golf, Mr. Kitts! Play it
with your clubs, and forget that book in your hip pocket. If you pull it
on me again, I'll--I'll----"
Adolphus tried to smile, but it was a sickly effort.
"You can't intimidate me," said he.
"Maybe not," said Windy, quite earnestly, "but I can lick you within an
inch of your life--and I will. Is there anything in the book about
that? If you read me out of this cup, you better make arrangements to
have it sent direct to the hospital. It'll make a nice flower holder--if
you've got any friends that think enough of you to send flowers!"
"You gentlemen are witnesses to these threats," said Kitts, appealing to
the gallery.
"We didn't hear a word," said Cupid. "Not a word. Go on and play your
match and stop squabbling. You act like a couple of fishwives!"
The contestants walked off in the direction of the tee, with Windy still
rubbing it in.
"A word to the wise. Keep that damn' book in your pocket, if you don't
want to eat it--cover and all!"
"Suppose they do mix it?" said Cupid, mopping his brow. "Sweet little
golfing scandal, eh? Can't you see the headlines in the newspapers?
'Country Club finalists in fist fight on links!' And some of these
roughneck humourists will congratulate us on golf becoming one of the
vital, red-blooded sports! Oh, lovely!"
"Bah!" said I. "There will be no fight. No man will fight who smiles
like a coyote when he is getting a call down."
"But a coyote will fight if you put it up to him, don't make any mistake
about that. And Kitts will spring the book on Windy again, I feel it in
my bones, and if he does--choose your partners for the one-step! Oh, why
did we ever let these rotters into the club?"